


Not Today

by dev_chieftain



Category: Tiger & Bunny
Genre: Jaw fondling, M/M, Nice sex, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-08
Updated: 2011-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:26:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dev_chieftain/pseuds/dev_chieftain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barnaby goes to indulge his exhibitionism kink while wearing only his red boots. A stranger who goes by the nickname 'Sol' shows him a good time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Today

**Author's Note:**

> May get a sequel eventually. (Yes, really really.)
> 
> I know there are three typos in this (at least) because I spotted then after I originally posted, but I can't remember what they were. If you notice them, let me know. Otherwise I'll be looking for them next time I get the chance to read through this when I'm not about to pass out.

It's a typical friday night, except for one important detail: Barnaby will turn twenty-three tomorrow.

They spent today together because tomorrow, Uncle Maverick has some events to handle and can't bow out. For all that there were moments when he was left clenching his fists until he could feel his fingernails digging into his palm, waiting for Uncle Maverick to finish with business calls and meetings, there has also been time enough to share lunch and even dinner and Barnaby is grateful. While he has been training relentlessly, working closely with his uncle to achieve their dream together and tirelessly testing out the new mechanical suit that Doctor Saito crafted for him to use in the next season of Hero TV, Barnaby has felt far emptier these last few years than he did when he spent all of his waking hours tirelessly pursuing the Ouroboros-tattoed man who'd killed his parents. When he isn't seeking vengeance, when he does not pursue that single purpose and daily stoke the flames of his hate, he's left to notice how hollow his life feels, to fret over the would-have-beens and never-wases. He would rather do anything, craft any evil to fight, than let himself have the time to sit and think, to stare at nothing in particular and wonder things like, 'am I really happy?' and 'what happens when I die?'

What _really_ happens?

So the idea of returning to his apartment for his regular friday night schedule of searching every currently in-print newspaper, tabloid, e-newsletter and blog he can find for signs of Ouroboros activity is oddly depressing. There is nothing to look forward to, tonight, tomorrow or otherwise, not until the next season of HeroTV at least. He has no great desire to slack off in his search, because to relax is to ruminate and to ruminate is to question, and questioning things usually leads him to an uncomfortable place where he is forced to admit that he does not know the answers. And yet, and yet. It seems like he ought to do something for his birthday. He feels impatient, unsatisfied. It seems like he really ought to try to make tonight count. Spend time with someone. Try to live the life he still has.

It seems like maybe, that's what his parents might have wanted. Not all this mindless vengeance and hate and driving himself until he breaks every second, every breath that he lives and breathes without them. Just- someone to spend time with. Someone to share the special truth that today is his birthday, and to care, and to cherish him and to be cherished. When he thinks of that, and the fact that he doesn't have it or anything even close to it, he's left to thread his fingers together, clenching his hands so tightly his fingers ache, head bowed, and do nothing at all.

At least he has Uncle Maverick.

At least he has one person who he knows cares about and respects him. Would take care of him if he got sick (and can, and has). Would miss him if he were to suddenly run away (and has, and did).

Oddly, today he doesn't really want to see Uncle Maverick. He has a weird feeling in his belly, like many weird feelings he has ignored before, a strange tightness of excitement and anticipation. Barnaby has every idea what it means: he didn't slumber through puberty unawares. He knows what he likes, at least when it's himself touching. He knows what he thinks he'd want. He knows how the excitement, the nervous anticipation, makes his breath come faster and his skin feel trembly and his limbs all feel like they wouldn't be able to hold him if he stood.

Every other day of his life, Barnaby Brooks Junior has ignored these feelings, these sensations, and has crushed them down and told himself 'not now' because he has had other things he swore he would live for, other things he promised he would protect. That hasn't changed, of course, though he's much closer to starting his crusade in earnest now than he was when he was twenty, or eighteen, or thirteen and embarrassed about stained sheets. That hasn't changed, and yet he's twenty three and he's never been with another person sexually even a little. The girls who followed him around in school were an enigma; the occasional man who'd touched his hand when they thought they might get some signal back from him an absolute mystery. He hasn't the faintest idea how he would change this.

Except there are websites, and phone-numbers and advertisements that are all dedicated to helping someone like him out.

Someone with tensions to work out, someone who is- frustrated, maybe a little unsafe.

So Barnaby decides to turn his typical friday night into one less so. He researches. He considers his options, he calls and does reconnaissance, he plans. When the hour gets late enough, he dresses accordingly, thinking with a thrum of nervousness he tries to conceal that Uncle Maverick would be so embarrassed if he found out, so Barnaby had better not fuck this up by letting it get public.

He wears black leather pants with zippers down the side to make it easy to touch, with a loose silk shirt in red to match his red boots. The clock strikes midnight, and he is in the parking garage, stepping astride his motorcycle and riding without so much as a second glance down into the darkest, sleaziest part of Stern Bild he can find, following street names and the local color until he finds it.

'Heels'.

He keys the security lock that transforms his motorcycle into a pile of heavy armored steel impossible to hotwire, carry off or otherwise steal, takes a deep breath to brace himself, and steps inside.

'Heels' has a sixty dollar cover pay once you step into the waiting hall, and is lit so brightly he has to shield his eyes at first. He wonders, for a moment, if he ought to have worn contact lenses. Then he adjusts to the flash and shine and manages a confident smile to the doorman who probably still can spot an idiot trying-to-play-it-tough rich kid from a mile away and shrugs, motioning him in. It smells like sweaty bodies and leather and the thick reek of leather stained with semen and vaginal fluids here, and the intensity is almost overpowering for a moment before Barnaby realizes he'd better adjust or get the hell out. There are men and women of every denomination here, though most of them seem to be his age or older. Somehow he's relieved by that thought. Better to find out his one-night-stand is a mother or father than that he's now eligible for arrest thanks to statutory rape. The ebb and flow of the club, however, is beyond his immediate understanding. Men and women tangle in public sex with wanton fury, fucking in front of the whole room without so much as a flinch for their exhibitionism, calling excitedly to lookers-on to join in, to touch and play. There are others assembled in large groups, quietly talking amidst the roar of the crowd. Music is playing somewhere, though not too loudly, and some people are dancing to it, if you can call grinding together in a parody of sex dancing.

The glitter and flash all around is positively distracting, and Barnaby is more than dazzled when a warm hand catches him by the shoulder out of nowhere, and a lithe body stands close to him, close enough that he can feel the hairs at the back of his neck standing on end. He's met with a warm laugh, and the hand proves to be attached to a lanky man that stands at least three inches taller than him, dark-skinned, wild-eyed and cheery as can be.

"You look like a cornered rat, my friend," laughs the man, almost twinkling in the lights. He wears a gold chain around his throat, and his dreadlocked hair flies around with every motion of his head. In bell-bottom jeans and a cotton shirt dyed red and yellow, he makes a curious contrast to the rest of the people here, and Barnaby feels oddly grateful to him for the hand on his shoulder, for that engaging smile.

Tentatively, he smiles back, alarmed at how shy he feels. "I'm not certain I actually understood the full consequences of coming here until just now," he admits, alarmed to have admitted something so personal and yet glad to say it aloud. He doesn't often question his impulses. When they're strong enough to make him want something, he just follows his gut to see why he's feeling them, and usually he realizes he's in too deep before it's too late to swim for shore. Today, he's not so sure.

"Believe me," laughs the man, slinging his arm across Barnaby's shoulders, "I know exactly what you mean. First time I came here I just stared for an hour or two." With a light tug, his strange new acquaintance leads him over towards a table with one of the large groups of friends quietly talking he had noticed earlier, sauntering casually enough that it puts him at ease. "Name's Sol, by the way."

"It's- nice to meet you, Sol," he answers, inordinately flustered and uncomfortable with the idea of sharing his name in a place like this. "Are these your friends?" He gestures to the table their approaching, which appears to be full and doesn't seem to contain anyone who's acknowledging their presence.

Sol hesitates, and when he turns back to Barnaby there's a searching sort of wolfish smile lurking in his eyes that makes that slightly excited twinge of uncertainty tighten until Barnaby's actually not sure he can breathe. The anticipation alone might well kill him, he thinks clinically, even as Sol reaches up to slowly drag his hands along the line of Barnaby's jaw. It tickles, so much that he tries to pull his face away, flushed darkly, embarrassed by his own reactions and unsure whether he dares proceed. "Hey," Sol says kindly, while Barnaby swallows against his suddenly dry mouth and Sol traces the line of Barnaby's jaw again, pulling him closer and holding him still while Sol leans in to take Barnaby's first kiss.

He feels like an idiot, and is certain he should go, and Sol's fingers ease up but Barnaby can't find it in him to pull away.

So Sol does, asking in that kind voice, "Do you want me to fuck you on that table while everyone's watching?" and it makes Barnaby's whole body throb with _yes_ , that's exactly the sort of thing that brought him here and _yes_ , he wants to know people are watching him and that he's letting them watch him and he wants to be fucked so badly, he wants that human contact, he wants to live like people do and touch and be close and have sex until he's utterly exhausted.

Shaking with anticipation, he nods slowly, not trusting his voice to stay steady. He's childishly grateful when Sol reaches up, still careful and slow enough that Barnaby could back away at any time, and takes away his glasses, folding them up with a soft click once he's taken them off of Barnaby's face, leaving him almost blind. That voice, which Barnaby clings to as something he must trust, tells him, "Don't worry. I've got your glasses in my breast pocket. I'll keep track of 'em for you."

"I," he stammers stupidly, and realizes he's so likely to get robbed it's probably already happened, but of course it's too late and he winces, turning his face away nervously. "My wallet and keys--"

"I can carry those for you if you want, too," Sol offers. "If not, they keep those things stored at the bar. Want me to take you over and help you stow 'em with the barkeep?"

It isn't, he realizes with some concern for his own sanity, that he doesn't trust Sol to keep an eye on his things, so much as that he starts to worry that he'll lose track of Sol and then his things will be gone _and_ he'll be alone, so he nods quickly, trying not to look too much like a frightened naive idiot (which is what he is, he thinks with some venom). "I should've done that when I came in," he mutters, mostly to himself, letting the hand between his shoulder blades slowly guide him through the crowd to the bar. Here a man whose face he cannot see agrees to hold his wallet and keys and even his glasses while he's busy enjoying the club's hospitality, with the promise that his things will not be given to anyone who doesn't match his appearance on his ID and know his name. Hoping that Sol does not sneak a peek while he is handing his effects over, Barnaby feels smaller and smaller, the anticipation quickly transforming into dread. When they are done and he is left to be blindly led back over to Sol's table, he admits his fear, digging in his heels for a moment. "I've never done this before," he says, barely able to do more than whisper. "Not even-- not with anyone."

There's a moment of surprised silence, and then Sol's hands are gently rubbing his back, even as Sol's lips find his throat and wring a startled gasp of pleasure from him. "That's okay, kid," Sol promises with a soft laugh. His hands begin to slide Barnaby's shirt up along his chest, dragging it as they go until he has Barnaby's hands twisted up in the silk above his head and is licking Barnaby's throat, their steps slow but still taking them closer to that table.

The world is different with a tongue on his throat and his chest bare to the hot air of the club. Barnaby wants to speak but his voice has abandoned him, and by the time he thinks he might have it, they're climbing onto the table and three sets of hands are undressing him, unzipping his pants and peeling his briefs away to leave him exposed. He might as well be blindfolded, because the people around him are a blur. He feels curiously aware of the smell of their drinks-- beer, beer, and scotch, and one with something fruity that makes his nose itch. Their faces are just a vague sense of 'someone is sitting there', utterly non-identifiable. Sol frees Barnaby's hands from his shirt and sets that down befort joining him on the table. He's not sure how or when Sol got naked, but he's glad for it, for the feel of those cool, dry hands over his chest and that tongue reapplied now to his hip, followed by a sharp, short bite that makes him groan.

Maybe it's not safe, maybe he has no idea whether Sol is secretly an axe-murderer or carrying a sexual disease and maybe Uncle Maverick can _never ever know_ about this, but Barnaby doesn't particularly care. It's what he wants, right down to the feel of the table's polyurethane hard and cold and slippery against his back as he's pushed down, and Sol pulls his left leg up over one shoulder to begin licking insistently down the inside of his thigh, biting the back of his knee.

"Sol," Barnaby gasps, and he grinds the heel of his right foot against the table, pushing _up_ with his hips into that electric sensation, the wet murky tingle of Sol's tongue. It's incredible. He feels far too warm right now. And if he's left to his own devices, he's going to embarrass himself and come, even if he's masturbated enough to last a little longer than this. "You," and then, more faintly, "Help?"

A throaty chuckle answers him, and Sol pets his stomach, rubbing it in slow circles just as he'd rubbed Barnaby's back when they were walking over. "You're damn cute, kid. We gotta find you a name." When he makes a sound of annoyed protest and starts to pull away, Sol laughingly pinches Barnaby's hip, admonishing him calmly, "Now now, stay put. I know just what you need." Sol turns to someone at the table that Barnaby can only recognize as probably a woman with red hair, and says, "Hey, lady. Spare your hair-tie for a little while?"

"If he didn't look so clean," answers a voice that shivers down Barnaby's spine. What if he ever sees this woman again? What if he hears her voice, or she sees him? What would she say? What will he do? _Maybe this wasn't such a fabulous idea._ "I probably wouldn't say yes. Have two," she chuckles, and then suddenly Barnaby's world shrinks to the very small but important reality of what Sol is doing with those hair-ties. Shocked-- maybe a little irritated-- he bites his lip, trying instinctively to pull away just a little when the soft elastic bands pull tight at the base of his erection, wrapping around and under to his balls. Sol doesn't wrap them any tighter than that first twist takes, but they're small enough that he doesn't need to. Barnaby can't help twitching his hips against the air, grunting in frustration at the futility of the gesture. Distressed by the answering laughter, he turns his face into the table, as if he could press back into it and hide from them all now that he's put himself in a stupidly defenseless position.

"Come on," Sol coaxes gently, bringing Barnaby's other leg up over his shoulder and licking there too, treating the insides of his thighs to enough attention that he's soon clawing at the slippery surface of the table, panting and making sounds that make him embarrassed to know they're coming from him. His hair clings to his face in sweaty loops and curls, and when Sol finally lets up, it's to turn Barnaby over onto his stomach, kneading his buttocks as if in promise of what's to come while someone Barnaby can't see strokes his hair, commenting almost in awe on how soft it is to the touch.

He grinds his hips into the table once before Sol drags him up with those firm hands on his waist, forcing him to rest on his knees and nudging his legs further apart. Just a little, Barnaby thinks he probably ought to say something, but before he can gather his wits about what it is he was going to say, Sol pours a cool wet something over his backside and Barnaby is too busy writhing away from that shock of cold and being embarrassed at how very much he likes it all at the same time to say anything more intelligent than " _Fuck!_ "

He never says things like this. Well, not usually. Sol comments, almost teasingly, "That was the idea, wasn't it?" and then Barnaby has fingers to concentrate on, fingers rubbing that oil hard into his skin and probing his asshole and, to his intense discomfort and unexpected pleasure, inside of him. When he finds resistance, Sol slows down, rubbing a hand down the length of Barnaby's thigh while he works with the other to slowly plunder Barnaby's ass, fingering him, stretching him until Barnaby's toes curl and his eyes cross and he opens his mouth to shout but can only mewl.

"What is that," he moans, kind of ashamed of himself but simultaneously aroused beyond any expectations he'd had coming into the club. He's only afraid he'll come and ruin it, now. "What- you- those are--"

"That's my fingers, yeah," Sol laughs, and he curls his fingers which makes something feel amazing and Barnaby's hips jump in answer. "Oo, I like that." He does it again, and again and so fast that Barnaby sees stars, reaches out to grab the edge of the table just to hold on, and he doesn't even think about it as he spreads his legs wider and pushes up into that sensation and Sol fingerfucks him, flicking that spot so fast that Barnaby is shaking when he suddenly stops. He can't stop himself from twitching every time Sol wriggles his three fingers, can't help the guttural moan of disappointment when, seemingly satisfied, Sol withdraws his fingers from Barnaby's ass and grabs his hips instead. "You having a good time there, kid?"

He's panting and red in the face, he knows it, but he's desperate that this doesn't stop. He almost wants to ask them to take turns, even though he's half certain he'll feel a lot different- more clear headed- after he's come at least once. "Yes," he answers, trying to beseech Sol to keep going by tone alone.

"You wanna sit in my lap?" Sol asks, and Barnaby just nods as much as he can because words, words are too much work right now and his cock is aching and fuck, he can still feel the ghost tremor of those fingers inside him and it's making him shiver. "All right, then, hold on," Sol purrs, and he pulls Barnaby up, carefully bringing Barnaby's hips down onto something kind of--thicker than fingers, bigger and warm and he has a lapse of judgment, thrusting himself down onto that warm sensation before he's ready and yelping in surprise when it burns a little, going so fast. "Hold it, hold it," Sol murmurs, guiding Barnaby with his hands and his voice, until Barnaby is sitting full in Sol's lap, sinking down onto Sol's erection bonelessly, unable to lift himself enough to ride it.

He whimpers hungrily as it stretches and fills him far more thoroughly than Sol's fingers did, thinking how amazing it would be to have this sliding in and out of him the way those fingers had, drumming against that thrumming pulse of delicious sensation. It doesn't take more than that; Sol wraps his arms around Barnaby, so they're pressed close and Barnaby can focus on holding on, and starts fucking him. Barnaby's boots click against the table with every thrust, his legs dangling limply at first. When he realizes how good it feels, he finds some reserve of strength he'd been unaware of and braces himself with his hands and feet, grinding down and back to meet each thrust until Sol relaxes, sitting back and letting Barnaby fuck himself until it hurts, trying to reach orgasm and unable to quite make it there past the sharp constriction of the hair-band-chastity Sol fashioned.

"Let me come," he pants, knowing he's drooling and covered in sweat and he won't remember any of these people's faces later but they'll know him and fuck, _fuck_ he just doesn't care he wants to come more than he's ever wanted anything in his whole life and the boots are sliding on the tabletop and his mouth works soundlessly as he struggles to reach what he cannot have. "Sol," and there's a desperation he can't believe he feels welling up in his voice. "Please--"

Sol's hand on his dick is amazing and Barnaby goes absolutely still, shouting in surprise. As soon as the hair-ties are slipped off (not that they don't leave a stinging mark behind where blood can suddenly flow again), Sol starts stroking Barnaby in time to his renewed thrusts. He can hear the click and screech of his boots on the table as he tries to find purchase and fuck himself even harder on that big, perfect, beautiful cock. He barely notices his own surrender, except that it blows him away and he comes so hard he actually hits his own chin, spraying cum up his chest and belly with a full-body shudder and a squeal of surprise.

Still stroking him, Sol fucks him through the afterglow, a little spark of pleasure every time Sol slams home stirring him slowly from his reverie. He comes to to the sound of his feet scrabbling uselessly over the tabletop, boot-heels scratching up the smooth surface. Sol comes quiet and still, buried deep inside him, whispering in his ear hoarsely, "Take it" and then sucking at his throat again, even as hot wet spills inside him and dribbles out and leaves him shuddering, a little confused, half-aware as Sol nuzzles him and forces his legs open wider so their audience can see the mess he's made of himself, see the semen dripping out of him as Sol slowly, slowly pulls free.

Barnaby thought he was grateful for those fingers on his face, that soothing calm voice when he walked in, but he really needs it now, as Sol sends one of their audience to get a paper towel so they can wipe clean before they step back into their clothes. Without that support, he's not sure he'd be able to find his equilibrium, as he drifts and tries to reconcile the fear that he just did something _monumentally stupid and dangerous_ with the feeling that _damn it, he's twenty three and has no life_. Sol dresses him while he's still reeling, fondling him a little to get him worked up, to tease a reaction out of him that is more responsive than a shy mumble or a demure glance away. When they slide off of the table, he discovers that his knees are all wobbly and is glad that Sol helps him back to the bar, where he retrieves his glasses gratefully, along with his other personal effects.

For a moment, he doesn't know what to do, staring at Sol's now-clear face with a sort of regret and dread, realizing that whatever else, _this_ will have repercussions. _This_ might be a problem.

And it's worse because Sol is a devilishly likeable sort of person, that Sol is still with him, stroking his face while he comes down from this strange euphoria, telling him he's beautiful. Barnaby doesn't know what to say to that; people tell him that every day, they're planning to market on it, but still, it feels like it ought to mean more, somehow, when the person who's saying it just fucked him senseless. When he's relatively confident that his voice will work if he opens his mouth, Barnaby stammers, "Thank you, for-" and can't finish and winces at his own naivete. "Thank you."

Sol flashes a smile, and pats him on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it." He winks and, casually as you please, hands Barnaby a scrap of paper with a phone number on it. "Give me a call if you want to do it again sometime."

He disappears.

And Barnaby is left staring at the paper, glad that he never gave his name, terrified of the potential ramifications, of the phone calls that Uncle Maverick could have to make if word of this were to get out. It's not long before his hormones have completely settled and all Barnaby can think is that he was a fool. He leaves before three in the morning, rides back home and showers until he's sleepy and it's nearly six.

This is new. Frightening.

It leaves him wondering about whether the life he's led has any meaning at all. So rather than agonize about it, he crumples up the little paper, throwing the number away. Maybe, someday, when he's found the man responsible for killing his parents, found closure, he can worry about those sorts of thoughts. He tells himself he will make time for them, when that time comes.

But not today.


End file.
